Pup, You've Got a Lot of Growing to Do
by Wofl
Summary: Sam's disappeared, and left Dean alone with a new friend. CRACK. Wincest. [Chapter 5 up]
1. Chapter 1

Dean dreams of Sam; the way Sam is when he's happy, genuinely. When Sam is smiling or laughing, his huge grin taking up half his face. He dreams about Sam's tender caresses, the way he pulls Dean to him with a quiet tranquil strength, even when he doesn't want to be drawn in. He dreams of Sam's kisses, feather soft or ferocious - depending on the occasion - claiming Dean's mouth, all heat and passion and Dean thinks he can taste the words neither of them will ever say on the tip of Sam's slick tongue.

The Sam in his dream has him pressed against a wall, one hand claiming a strong grip on Dean's hip, the other draped heavily across Dean's collarbone. His breath is hot against Dean's neck; he can feel every motion of his little brother's lips as they twitch into a sultry smile. Dean grunts as teeth scrape against his Adam's apple, and he arches up from the wall, seeking more heat, more contact.

"Sam," he mutters, breathless and needy. "God, _Sam_."

He can feel Sam's hot tongue, mapping its way along Dean's jaw, teeth scraping, sometimes just hard enough to be painful, but it only makes Dean want more. He arches again, something halfway between a moan and a whimper catching in his throat.

It's strange. He can feel Sam's tongue, can feel the sharp nips when Sam employs his teeth, can even feel the pressure of Sam's arm, heavy on his chest. But the rest of him, it's like it's not there. His brow furrows and he tilts his head back, as Sam bites him, harder this time. "More, Sam," he pleads, hand groping again, searching for the spot where he knows the small of Sam's back should be. Again, to his dismay and confusion, he finds nothing. "Give me more."

Sam bites him again, hard enough to jerk him away from sleep and into the world of wakefulness. He finds himself in a cold motel room, a curse on his lips, and fully expects to open his eyes and see Sam hovering above him, all half-lidded bedroom eyes and a wicked smile, lips curled back to reveal his goddamn fucking sharp teeth.

So when he does open his eyes and finds himself gazing directly into the eyes of an Irish Setter puppy, Dean nearly pisses his pants. He flails disconcertedly, mindlessly, until he tumbles out of bed completely and lands in a heap of blankets and pillows and puppy on the floor.

The dog yelps, a paw caught beneath Dean's heavy weight and Dean swears, shifting to the side to let the poor thing escape. "What the fuck Sam?" Dean snarls, head swiveling around in search of his brother. If this was the start of another prank war, oh he would get a fucking prank war. But Sam is nowhere to be found.

Anger quickly gives way to caution and Dean lets a few seconds pass in silence, eyes still prying at the dark corners of the room as if he expects Sam to leap out of the shadows at any moment, snickering at him like a little bitch. "Sammy?"

The puppy barks, as if in response, and Dean looks down at the thing, all lanky limbs and shaggy fur. It wags its tail and paws at Dean's leg. It's cute. It reminds him of Sam, a bit; and with that thought, Dean reaches forward with one hand and scratches the thing behind the ears idly.

"Where the fuck did my brother find you?" Dean asks, feeling stupid for talking to the thing - notes the fact that it's not enough to stop him from doing it. He sorts out his limbs and scoops up the blankets, heaves them back onto the bed, and looks around for a note from Sam. Usually he doesn't go anywhere without telling Dean where he's going or at least leaving Dean some sort of message.

"And where the fuck is he?" He asks darkly, when he finds nothing. Worry spikes in his stomach, hot and aching, and Dean scowls. God, he feels like a fucking chick when her boyfriend doesn't call when he says he will; hates that he can't stop his mind from jumping to the most horrific conclusions it can fathom. But Sam is his brother, and he can't exactly look after him if he's not around.

Sam's not stupid, he knows. He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself – proved that when he turned eighteen and ran off to college, but a lot has happened since then. Events have occurred that have twisted their lives for good, pushed them down one-way roads. There are things, now, that lock them together, keep them side by side and Dean has let himself grow comfortable, attached; needs Sam now more than he ever has.

Chances are he just ran out for coffee, or went to snag their daily barrage of various newspapers from the nearest 7-11 and laugh to himself about his clever joke. Chances are that he'll be back within the hour, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face and ask Dean about his thoughts on bestiality. Chances are, Dean's just being a worrywart, digressing into total chick-mode and he should definitely stop that right about now.

So he straightens his bed back out and seeks out the warmth hidden beneath the comforter. He has every intention of going back to sleep; is sure that Sam will wake him again when he gets back. But his plans are a bone; one which is promptly stolen from him by a certain enthusiastic setter. The pup tries to jump up onto the bed and fails miserably the first couple of times, obviously still clumsy with youth.

It whimpers, a little, and then manages to gather its feet underneath it. The next thing Dean knows, it's in his face, licking every unguarded bit of flesh it can find and whining, high and insistent. Dean sputters as the thing laps at his lips, lifts a hand and shoves it roughly away. "NO," he says, voice stern, but stops short of pushing it off the bed. Damn thing would probably just jump right back up anyways.

It's ruthless, turning on Dean's hand when it finds it can't reach his face anymore. It growls, low in its throat and takes Dean's fingers into its mouth, nipping gently. It brings back phantoms of Dean's dream, when similar teeth were on his throat and Dean groans.

He wants to sleep, dammit, and that's not going to happen as long as he has to defend himself from boundless canine antics. He has half a thought of throwing the creature out the door without a second thought, but knows even before the thought can complete itself that he could never be that cruel. Instead, he sits up and drags himself out of bed. He scoops up the wriggling puppy with both arms and carries it – him, Dean notices – over to the bathroom.

He shuts the dog in the bathroom and decides he can figure out what to do with the damn thing when he wakes up. He nestles himself back into bed, wriggling around in some fruitless attempt to find the exact spot he'd been lying in before. Before he can find it, there comes a horrible lilting howl, drifting out from underneath the closed bathroom door. The noise crashes down around his ears, and if it were up to him, he'd just cover his head with a pillow until the thing figured out that it wasn't going to work, but he's at a hotel, dammit. And hotels usually aren't too keen on their tenants harboring animals; particularly ones that disturb the peace.

"Fuck," Dean mutters, getting up again, much to his chagrin. He reaches the bathroom and turns the knob, letting the door swing open. The instant the door is open, the howling stops. The puppy is sitting on the floor, and when Dean glares down at him, he thumps his tail good-naturedly against the tiles.

Dean sighs. "Look, here's the deal," he says, crossing his arms and giving the animal his best _I'm the boss here_ look. "If you can be quiet and let me sleep, I'll let you out of the bathroom, otherwise, you stay in here. If you howl again, I'm throwing your furry ass out the door, got it?"

The whelp snorts and dips its head, covering it's snout with a paw, and Dean takes that as a form of consent to The Rules. "Fine." He eyes the dog for another moment and then goes back to bed, leaving the bathroom door open.

The puppy follows him across the room, and hops back up on the bed. Dean braces himself for another onslaught of puppy tongue, but the thing just crawls under the covers, curls up in the crook of Dean's arm, and rests it's head on his chest. Dean tries to hide a smile. Dammit, he's not going to get attached to the damn thing. As soon as he finds Sam, they're getting out of this dump and there's no way he's letting a dog ride in the Impala.

But the thing is cute, and damn affectionate. So he supposes it's okay if he lets it sleep with him, just this once

* * *

-TBC- 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

The sun has shifted, steady in its journey across the sky, and relentless. It halts for no man, has no regret, refuses to apologize for its harsh, bright light. It's shining on Dean's face, painting his eyelids some brutal mix of red and orange, and he just wants a few more minutes, dammit.

Unfortunately, that's no an option. The sun isn't going anywhere, and now that Dean's awake, there are more pressing matters that need to be addressed. The first being the fact that if the sun is on his face, that means several hours have passed. The window is on the west wall, indicating that the morning has withered away while Dean slept, and has been replaced by the afternoon.

The next matter is a whining that's coming from somewhere near the door, accompanied by the soft scratching of claws on the wooden door. Dean cracks an eye, bringing on hand up to shade his face from the cruel sunlight, and peers across the room. The puppy is pacing back and forth, tail tucked between its legs. Periodically, it pauses, whining and scratching at the door before turning to look pointedly at Dean, eyes big and soft and pleading.

"Oh," Dean says, when the realization hits him. "You need to go out, huh?"

He drags one hand over his face, fingers digging at the corners of his eyes to wipe away the sleep-snot that's collected there and takes a second or two to stretch his limbs. He climbs out of bed and locates the duffle bag containing his boots. He pulls them on, but doesn't bother tying them, and, with a sudden thought, searches through their weapon bag until he finds a length of rope.

"Come on," he growls, exasperated, when his attempt to tie the rope around the pup's neck ends in bared fangs and tooth-marked fingers. "There are leash laws around here, you know."

He makes a grab for the thing, manages to corner it and scoop it up. But he needs both hands to tie a knot, so he plunks himself down on the stained carpet and puts the dog between his knees. It squirms, but can't escape Dean's grip. It whines again, high and sad, a noise that is obviously unhappy, but he doesn't try to bite Dean again, and he manages to get a knot tied around the thing's neck, tight enough that he won't slip out of it, but not too tight.

"Lets go, you pain in the ass." Dean stands and wraps the other end of the rope around one hand a few times before opening the door.

The puppy rushes outside ahead of Dean, tail wagging, nose to the ground until the length of rope pulls taut and its small body jerks to the side at the sudden pressure around its throat. Dean chuckles a bit and gives the thing a few more inches of slack, which is quickly eaten up by the dog's enthusiasm. He strains at the end of the makeshift leash and whimpers.

Dean leads the puppy around to the back of the building, scouting out a small patch of grass with a couple trees interspersed. It's a poor excuse for a yard, but Dean's never really been fond of all that nature crap anyhow; too many places for evil shit to hide. He plunks himself down beside one of the trees and ties the rope in a loop around his wrist, effectively ignoring the dog while it sniffs around in the grass and pulls out his phone.

It rings; twice, three times, picks up on the fourth ring and Sam's voice says i Hello/i and Dean's heart leaps up into his throat. Relief, he realizes, what he's feeling is relief, and he hadn't really realized he'd been so worried until this moment. He manages a clipped, "Sammy," before the prerecorded message continues and Dean's heart drops back into his stomach like a stone.

"Haha! Gotchya." Sam's voice crackles, somewhat fuzzy, but still distinctively filled with mirth. "I'm not available right now. Leave me a message and I'll call you back."

"Dammit, Sam," Dean snarls when the operator stops blabbering instructions and the beep sounds in his ear. "Where the hell are you? Answer your damn phone, bitch."

He snaps his phone closed, irritated; but more prominently he can feel the knots tightening in his chest, his worry redoubling, manifesting as a cold lump in his stomach. Sam's not answering his phone. And that means there are only three possibilities.

A) Sam's phone is _off. _ (But that doesn't make sense, Sam's phone is NEVER off.)

B) Sam is ignoring Dean's calls. (But that can't be it either, because they were getting along last Dean knew, and as far as he knows he hasn't done anything to compromise that status. And unless Sam was mad, why would he be ignoring Dean?)

C) Something. Is. Wrong. (And Dean doesn't want to believe this is the case, but he's suspecting more and more that it is.)

There is a tug at his wrist and the knot there tightens right alongside the one in his chest, and he glances over his shoulder to where the puppy is marking a tree. It stares at him, almost accusingly, and Dean takes that as dog-language for, _avert your eyes, pervert._

Dean looks away. After another moment or so - in which Dean is able to concoct one too many horrible ideas about where his brother could be – the puppy seems to be finished. He comes trotting over to where Dean is sitting and worms his way onto Dean's lap and looks up at him expectantly; mouth open, tongue dangling, puppy breath puffing up into Dean's face.

"You need your teeth brushed, man," Dean remarks, wrinkling his nose.

The puppy ignores him (_doesn't fucking understand, jackass,_ Dean tells himself). Instead, he noses at Dean's chin, gives him a tiny lick and then turns his head, pressing against Dean's hand; the one holding his cell phone. He whines.

"Don't remind me," Dean says bitterly, flipping the phone open to stare blankly at the screen. It's not ringing, which means Sam's not calling. Dammit. He stands up, striding quickly back towards the motel room, temper flaring, dog in tow.

He slams the door open and doesn't bother to close it. He drops the rope somewhere between the door and the bed and doesn't really notice that he's done it. He's too busy throwing weapons into a bag, anything he thinks could be useful. After all, he's not really sure what he's preparing to go up against, but whatever it is, he's pretty sure with all this, he's got it covered.

He pulls his phone out again, dials the only number he's ever bothered to memorize, and waits with baited breath.

From somewhere across the room, there's a noise playing. It's a song, but Dean doesn't recognize it, other than the fact that it is his brother's ringtone. Bewildered, he tucks his own phone between his ear and his shoulder and tries to trace the noise. After a minute, the ringing stops and Sam's phone flips over to the voicemail. "Dammit."

Dean dials again. The music starts back up. He can hear it, but he can't _find_ it. Fuck. The voicemail picks up for the second time; the ringing stops.

Third time's the charm, right?

There's a tugging at his foot, suddenly, and an insistent bark and Dean looks down to find the puppy looking up at him (Dean's amazed it hasn't run out the door, now that he thinks about it). More surprising, however, is the pair of pants the dog has clutched in it's tiny jaws. They're huge; completely dwarfing the animal, by comparison. And it's not surprising, they're Sam's.

They're also ringing.

Dean wrestles the jeans away from the dog - an easy feat, the pup doesn't seem too interested in fighting him for them – and fishes in the pocket. Sure enough, his hand emerges clutching Sam's phone. The voicemail picks up a few seconds later and Dean hangs up his own phone and drops it on the bed, eyes wide, fixed on Sam's phone.

Sam never goes _anywhere_ without his phone.

The pit in Dean's stomach opens wide, lined with terrible, serrated teeth and the foul stench of panic and fear drifts up from its dark depths. It doesn't bother to taste or bite; doesn't hesitate for an instant. It swallows him whole.

Something is wrong. Something is horribly, terribly, maddeningly, utterly _wrong_. Dean tastes bile in his throat, or maybe stomach acid. It burns, strong and bitter on his tongue and oh god, _he's wasted so much time_.

* * *

TBC

oh man, I am having way too much fun with this. XD Expect more soon.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

It's a sharp, burning pain in his gut that stops him before he gets to the door. And that pain is the knowledge that he has absolutely _nothing_ to go by. He has 100, lost in the dark, car upside-down in a ravine, no clue where Sam could have gone. There's no note, no evidence, no signs of struggle; at least not any that he can see. 

So Dean takes a moment, takes a breath, and just lets everything sink into perspective for a few seconds. First thing's first, he closes the door.

The next thing he does is swear, copiously, furiously, raking through every dirty word he's ever heard (and, boy, has he heard a lot) and he even makes a few up, he thinks. It's strangely calming, he finds; though it does nothing to dissipate the anxiety that has clamped down on his stomach. Dean doesn't think that's really going anywhere any time soon, however, so he ignores it for now.

At his feet, the puppy is making soft growling noises and tugging on his pants adamantly. And Dean thinks, not for the first time, that it may be trying to tell him something. Which is when it hits Dean that maybe he does have a clue after all.

"You were here all along and I didn't even notice?" Dean questions, bending down and scratching the thing behind the ears. The puppy barks, high and excited, almost a yip. Dean scowls down at the furry creature, suddenly angry. He could kick himself for being such a thickheaded moron, he really could.

"Fucking figures," he continues, standing up and striding over to the desk. "My brother couldn't be normal and just leave a damn note or a trail of breadcrumbs. Noooo, he has to leave a fucking dog."

Behind him, the dog snorts and growls again.

"Goddamn pain in my ass," Dean snarls, more to himself, now, because he's starting to feel pretty fucking stupid for talking to a damn dog. He rifles through the papers and the other sundry objects littering the surface until he finds what he's looking for. The phone book is at the bottom of a stack of thick tomes – dusty things filled with gibberish on mythology and ancient shamanism and who knows what else - and he just downright doesn't have time for careful. He pushes the books aside, roughly, and swears at the bag of peanut M&Ms that falls to the floor with a crinkle and he can hear the candy as it skitters mutely across the rug. Ultimately, he ignores the mess in favorite of flipping through the yellow pages in search of any and every pet store or shelter in the area.

The brightly colored candies carpet the floor, and Dean hears a few of them crunch beneath his booted foot as he moves to the bed. He snatches up his phone and begins making his way through the listings. He refuses to acknowledge that his fingers are trembling as he punches in the numbers.

Halfway through his third call, (and dammit, no one has seen his brother, or anyone even remotely resembling him. But Dean supposes he shouldn't have asked the first place if they'd seen anyone that "kinda looked like sasquatch", because, in retrospect, that hadn't gone over too well) there's a sudden commotion that erupts from the other side of the bed. He apologizes to the lady on the other end of the line and informs her that he'll have to call her back (he wont really, he's already elicited that she hasn't seen Sam, and that makes her useless; even if she did sound hot) and hangs up before she can respond.

The dog, his only clue, is barking, and loudly. And Dean supposes it warrants at least a moment of his attention, considering it seems to be smarter than the average dog, and hey, he's seen a hell of a lot weirder than canines with extra brain power. Hell, maybe he's approaching this the wrong way after all. Maybe he should have been following the puppy's leads this whole time. He stands and walks over until said puppy swims into view, and Dean's mouth unconsciously falls open at what he sees.

The puppy is staring up at Dean expectantly, tail thumping on the ground. As soon as it saw it'd gotten Dean's attention, the thing had left off barking. At it's feet, there's been a space cleared of the candy Dean had spilled. Laid out in careful lines and curves, Dean can see the letters J-E-R-K spelled out in all red M&Ms.

Dean swallows. The red ones are Sammy's favorite.

The pieces _finally_ click into their right place, and it's not until now that Dean realizes he's been trying to shove them into the wrong spots. His hand finds his head, holding on to it as if he's afraid his brain might slip out and drip onto the floor. He feels a bit woozy, suddenly, and he takes a step backwards, sinking down into the chair by the desk.

Weakly, he holds back something that might be a sob or a laugh, and says, "bitch."

Sam barks, tail swishing back and forth behind him, as much of an expression of _finally, you nimrod _as he can manage. At least, Dean assumes; and that's about all he can do.

"Good thing that's not literal, huh?" He asks with a smirk, staring down at what has become of his brother. He's managed to recover, a bit. God, he's never been so relieved in his life. And now that he knows Sam's okay – well, he's not _okay_ persay, considering he's a dog, but at least he's not _hurt_ - it's alright to make jokes. "I'd never let you live it down if you were a girl dog, dude."

The puppy -_ Sam_, Dean thinks, fucking _Sam_ - growls, but Dean thinks if a dog is capable of looking reassured, he's witnessing it right now. Sam is at his feet in an instant, and not long after, he's wriggling his way into Dean's lap and licking his face happily.

"Dude, gross," Dean protests, torn between the need to be close to Sam and disgust at the fact that his brother is licking his face.

In the end, Rough-and-Tough sinks the eight-ball in the corner pocket, effectively hustling Chick Flick out of the picture and settling the competition. Dean shoves Sam away, gently. "Seriously man, cut it out."

Sam looks wounded, a whine escaping from his throat and, _holy shit_, if Dean thought Sam had puppy eyes before, they're nothing compared to what they are now that Sam actually _does_ have puppy eyes. And his brother is milking it for all he's worth, big chocolate saucers burning holes of adorable right through Dean.

"Fuck you," he says, and has to turn away to be able to say it. "I'm not into bestiality, no matter what you may think."

Sam growls, low in his throat and gives Dean a look that can best be described as "withering," but Dean's not entirely sure if animals are capable of such expressions. He supposes no one ever told Sammy that, though, because he's doing a damn good job of it.

Dean can almost physically feel the knot that had been drawing ever tighter in his chest loosen. It's still there, of course, worry still nursing itself with the fact that his brother is cursed, or spellbound or _something_, but it's nothing compared to what it had been a few moments ago.

Dean feels like he can breathe again, some heavy weight lifted off him, and it strikes him, not for the first time, how pathetically attached he is to his brother. If he thinks back, there is nothing in his life that can turn his emotions up to ten faster than Sam can. And it's probably not healthy, he knows, but it's not like he can help it. Prime Objective Number One has always been to look out for Sammy. It's a way of life, for Dean.

He settles a hand on Sam's back, fingers digging into the fur, scratching gently. And, well, if those scratches soon after turn into something that closely resembles a hug - _but totally isn't, man, that's weak_ - and Dean finds himself unable to relinquish his hold on the furry creature that is his brother in his arms, he can only hope that Sam won't remember any of this once he's back to normal.

At least he's not crying. Dean can take comfort in that.

* * *

TBC ( Someone should punch me for this. Or, I dunno, stick my face in a blender. GAH.) 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean leaves the M&Ms on the floor. Granted, he sweeps them over into a far corner of the room, but he makes no inclination of cleaning up the brightly colored mess. He even goes as far as to request at the front desk to have no maid service, claiming his brother is sick and needs to rest, undisturbed. The clerk gives him a long considering look, but in the end, she shrugs and writes the note down.

By the time he gets back to the hotel room, inquiries as to what they should do about the whole crazy situation floating around on the tip of his tongue, Sam has already spelled out the answer in the corner, new letters constructed from the candy laid out on the floor.

R-E-S-E-A-R-C-H.

A few inches below that.

A-S-S.

Dean doesn't miss the fact that Sam has taken the extra effort to insult him twice now. Surely, that must mean something.

"Cute," he mutters, and Sam alternates his gaze between Dean and his laptop, sitting on the desk. Dean follows his brother's gaze and his face darkens at the prospect of investigations.

"Yeah, I get it." He's not thrilled, has never been good at the research, but it's not like he really has a choice. Paws aren't exactly congruent to typing abilities, and Sam can't _tell _him what to search for. Dammit, Sammy is the one that's good at all this crap, not Dean.

It's not that Dean doesn't help out at all, it's that usually, it's more his thing to surf the news sites. He's the one that keeps an eye out for strange stories. His email's set up to notify him when something bizarre pops up in a headline in any paper anywhere in the country. That kind of research, he can do. But when it's this hit or miss, guess on a whim, no mercy, Serious Geek Business research – the kind you have to cross reference and draw patterns and read things in ancient, dead languages to draw conclusions - well, that's Sam's area of expertise. So yes, when Dean thinks this project is going to be a bitch, he really has no idea how right he is.

With a sigh, he sits down and opens Sam's laptop. This is a headache in the making, he's sure of it.

Three hours later finds Dean ready to march into Google headquarters with a shotgun and put a bullet through every person's face that is not hard at work, blocking irrelevant search results. Seriously. This is some Bullshit with a capital B, right here.

His eyes have crossed, somewhere along the line and he considers putting a fist through the screen, but figures Sam would never forgive him for such a stunt, so he holds back and tries to think of a search query that isn't "my brother is a fucking dog" or "canine shapeshifting." Because he's already tried both and one turns up nonsense and the other turns up crap about furries – and he could have gone the rest of his life not knowing about those. People are so damn crazy, he thinks, not for the first or last time.

He lifts a hand and scrubs at his eyes, trying to force away the blurry effect that the screen has taken on sometime in the past twenty minutes, and sighs heavily. "Jesus, Sammy, how do you do this crap?"

He quirks a look back towards the bed, where Sam has perched. At first, he'd paced, trying to read over Dean's shoulder as he searched, but he must have been having trouble because he'd given up after ten minutes or so. Either that or Dean just _really_ sucked at research. He strongly suspects the latter, honestly.

Sam snorts at the question, but with a glance at the clock - which has marched ruthlessly through the night and is proceeding, now, right on towards morning – adopts a low whine instead and thumps his tail against the bedspread. He hops up from his roost and makes his way towards the head of the bed. There, he wrestles with the blankets, takes them in his teeth and drags them down.

Dean takes it as it is; an invitation for bed.

Which happens to sound like the greatest idea Dean has heard all day.

He shuts the laptop, happy to be away from the soft glow of the screen and the useless words scrawled across it. He kicks off his boots and shucks off his pants before climbing into the bed, pulling the covers back up over him. Sam wriggles and squirms until he's underneath the covers and Dean can't bring himself to protest when he goes right on from there, nosing his way beneath one of Dean's arms.

He sniffs at Dean, for a second, and it might just be the most awkward thing he's ever experienced. But then his brother licks him, just once, and settles his head on Dean's chest, and Dean can't stop himself from raising his hand to scratch idly along Sam's back until he's sure his brother is asleep.

Wouldn't you know, even as a dog, Sam snores.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** Just wanted to give a shout out to all of the lovely reviews you have been leaving me. I appreciate them all and am glad you're all enjoying this fic, despite the pure crack that it is. :p Much love.

* * *

His brother has a lot of new habits, Dean notices. Like the fact that he can't stop himself from scratching – _God, do you have fricken fleas or what?_ Dean asks, after one vigorous bout - or the need to sniff everything in his immediate vicinity. And then there's the marking of his territory. That's the one that really gets him.

"Dude, this HAS to stop," Dean exclaims, shaking a boot in Sam's direction. A boot that smells suspiciously like dog pee. And okay, Sam only does it when Dean ignores Sam, or slacks off on his research, but that doesn't change the fact that Sam has peed on three, count 'em, THREE, pairs of Dean's shoes now. Not to mention the tires of the impala and one of Dean's sweatshirts.

It's getting very old very fast.

Sam just looks at him as if he's the most unimpressive object on the planet. It's funny how three days can turn a guy into an expert on reading expressions that have only the tiniest differences between them. Disgusted is only a lip curl away from being outright pissed off. Boredom so easily mistakable for sorrow. Who says dogs don't have expressions? It's an attribute to how well Dean knows his brother that reading his emotions, even like this, comes as a second nature.

"Don't even think about it," he remarks lazily upon waking, one wary eye trained on the four-legged ball of fluff. Sam hasn't done anything yet, but he's started the morning by pacing. Sign enough that Sam is impatient for Dean to get up and at 'em, even if Dean is not really an up and at 'em kind of guy when it happens to occur at five in the friggen morning. Jesus. But then Sam starts to whine in that restless way that tells Dean his brother is getting ready to do something drastic to motivate Dean.

Dean's motivated. Oh he's _plenty_ motivated. Three days out and he's lonely. He misses Sam. _His_ Sam. And while Sam is still technically here, it's not the same, really. And the strain is wearing on both of them, he can tell. Because the first day, Sam was restless, but curious, despite being a dog, he was more than willing to let his instincts run the show, sniffing around the corners of the room, wrestling with a stray flannel (which, okay, had been really fucking cute), marking his territory, much to Dean's distaste on that count.

Eventually curiosity had given way to boredom and now all Sam really does is pace. Endlessly. Dean finds it distracting, annoying, and downright worrisome. Not to mention the fact that Sam's appetite has disappeared entirely. Which was understandable at first, what with the traumatic experience of being turned into a dog and all, but enough is enough.

Dean sits up, stomach growling insistently, and doesn't know how Sam's stomach hasn't eaten him from the inside out at this point. Sam refuses to leave the motel room, aside from going to the bathroom and even then, he won't until he absolutely has to, whimpering, tail tucked and pawing at the door. So when Dean makes a food run that morning, he's on his own.

He thinks about buying Sam some dog food and quickly vetoes the idea, knowing Sam would take one look at him and pee on everything Dean owns. He settles, instead, for picking up all of Sam's favorite breakfast foods in a last ditch effort to tempt Sam into eating before he has to get all Big Brother on Sam's ass and force feed the damn kid. Dean won't be impressed if it gets down to that.

So pancakes and bacon and eggs and hash browns it is. All of it greasy as hell because that's the only way the diner serves it, apparently, but it'll have to do. They've eaten worse, Dean tells himself, and doubles the order because he's hungry too.

Sam is a lot more forthright with his affection now. He demonstrates this fact once again as Dean unlocks the door and does battle with the knob, a difficult feat when trying to juggle the food and the books he's picked up from the library. And then Sam is underfoot, making things a million times more difficult, pawing at Dean's legs and yipping soft and excited.

It's just about all Dean can do not to fall flat on his face when he tries to take a step, and as it is, Sam yelps and skitters back, having been caught, literally, underfoot. He fixes Dean with an accusing stare and laps at his wounded paw pointedly.

"Serves you right, you friggen oaf," Dean snaps, one of the books slipping out of his grip and landing with a thump, dust swirling up from between the pages in a cloud. Sam growls and Dean doesn't bother to retrieve it quite yet, just moves to the bed and dumps the rest of the books and the food down onto it. Hands finally free, he lifts one of them, presenting a single finger to Sam to let him know what he thinks of _that_.

He pops open one of the Styrofoam to-go boxes with a flip of his thumb and drops the container onto the floor unceremoniously. "Got you something to eat," he grunts, turning his attention on his own food. He's surprised, pleasantly, to find it's not really as bad as it looks. Pretty fucking greasy, even for Dean, but not bad.

Dean chews slowly and watches Sam surreptitiously as he sniffs at the food, even goes as far as to nudge at one of the pancakes with his nose and almost looks interested when he discovers the eggs are covered in ketchup the way he likes them, but ultimately turns away, seemingly disinterested. Sam jumps up on the bed, instead, and paws at the books, far more engaged with them.

Dean growls, and god, he hopes he's not picking up the habit from Sam; but he's too incensed to stop to ponder the fact. He reaches out and smacks Sam smartly on the nose, ignoring the countered growl and snap of Sam's teeth. He grabs Sam by the scruff of the neck and slips his other hand under his belly and lifts him up, gripping him tight to his chest when Sam starts squirming.

"Now look here," Dean says with a grunt when Sam's head connects with his chin. He plunks himself down on the floor beside the untouched container of food and drops Sam unceremoniously beside him, meeting Sam's death glare with one of his own. "Quit being such a bitch and stop starving yourself. Either you eat this or I will shove it down your throat, got it?"

Dean has the advantage in the fact that he is completely serious about that, and makes sure to stare at Sam long enough to convey that. For a moment, he thinks Sam will refuse; his teeth are bared and he looks more than a little ruffled over the undignified handling. But then Sam's tail – previously held straight out (sure sign of attack, as far as dog-language goes, learned that the hard way first time they went up against a black dog) – droops and curls underneath him in submission and he drops his head, moving once again to sniff halfheartedly at the food.

He goes for the bacon first, the overcooked strips crunching between his teeth and littering tiny crumbs over the motel carpeting. Dean sighs in relief, and retrieves his own meal, but remains on the floor with Sam, offering his brother a silent companionship – as close to an apology as he can bring himself to make. Sam _is_ hungry, though, because the minute the food touches his mouth, it's as if he recalls how long it's been since he's had any, because suddenly he's scarfing the food as fast as he can.

It's only a matter of minutes before the container is empty, lapped clean by Sam's meticulous tongue and he peers up at Dean expectantly, licking his chops. Dean utters some form of I-told-you-so, but he's laughing because he's relieved and Sam has ketchup on his snout. He reaches out and shovels some of his food into Sam's container and Sam doesn't hesitate, devouring that just as quickly.

He seems satisfied after that, lets his tail thump good naturedly against the carpet and flops over on his side, belly distended after his meal and he sighs. Dean didn't know dogs were capable of sighing. Maybe Sam's just an exception.

Dean finishes the last few bites of his breakfast and grabs the first book his fingers come across as they grope across the bedspread. He settles back against the foot of the bed and flips open the book, choking on the dust that springs up at the movement. He reads in silence, chewing on his plastic fork thoughtfully, and one hand moves to scratch Sam behind the ears without even really thinking about it.

They sit that way for several minutes, Dean reading through depictions of the Greek goddess Circe turning men into swine and Sam's tail thumping out a rhythm on the carpet, eyes closed as Dean runs his fingers through his fur absentmindedly. And then, suddenly, Sam lurches beneath Dean's hand and he's on his feet, a whimper escaping from him and his tail tucking itself tight to the underside of his stomach. He scampers towards the door, scratching at the wood frantically and lets out a single desperate yap.

Dean's not far behind him, panic jumping in his veins and he turns the knob, pulling the door open. Sam barely makes it five steps out before he freezes, mid stride and drops his head and makes an alarming choking noise that sets Dean's heart beating double time. And then, up comes Sam's breakfast, the different foods still distinguishable. Sam whimpers helplessly and heaves again until there's nothing left forthcoming and then retreats back to Dean on shaky paws.

"Dude, you okay?" Dean asks, upon closing the door, blocking out the puddle of vomit. Sam nods miserably, and at least that gesture is still the same no matter what the species. He flops back down onto the floor with a pathetic whimper. If Sam were still human, Dean would mock him for sounding like such a girl.

"What gives?" he demands instead, though he suspects he already knows. "Can't handle a little grease, Sammy?" he asks, and maybe it's cruel of him to make light of Sam's plight, but by this time, he knows of no other way to respond. It's almost an automated response, ingrained into Dean's being. Shrug it off, move on; that's the Winchester Method, tried and true.

But it's only a rough exterior, meant to cover up Dean's frustrations because this means he's right back at square one and this time, just bullying Sam into eating his favorite foods isn't going to work. Sam can't handle his favorite foods, and Dean could kick himself for neglecting to consider the differences between human and dog digestive tracts. But really, Sam is going to kill him for the only solution Dean is coming up with in his mind.

Dean makes a note to lock all of his things in the bathroom before he breaks the news to Sam, lest Sam decides to exact his revenge on objects that can't defend themselves against Sam's fury and frustratingly impeccable aim.

* * *

TBC 


End file.
